


A Perfect Perch

by fuchs



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom Derek Hale/Top Stiles Stilinski, First Time, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, in the most literal sense, this is exactly as cliche as you're expecting it to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 01:18:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4371605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuchs/pseuds/fuchs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An idea is starting to form in his mind, one of <em>those</em> ideas, the type that either turn out brilliantly or almost get someone gutted. And in this case, the party losing their intestines would be Stiles.</p><p>‘Do you– Well. I mean… I could give you a massage?’ Stiles offers tentatively.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Perfect Perch

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first attempt at the smut, don't judge me! originally posted on [tumblr](http://www.mermaid-reyes.tumblr.com).

The thing about werewolf healing is that it’s very efficient. Biologically, werewolf bodies have evolved in such a way that allows for the greatest impact with the least amount of energy expenditure. Slower metabolisms, higher core body temperatures, greater lung capacity, everything designed for high performance and energy conservation. The same goes for the healing factor.

What that basically means is the injury that’s most likely to kill a werewolf is the one that’ll heal the fastest, and everything non-vital is left alone for nature to take it’s course. Stabbed through the gut with a rusty pipe? No problem, the skin will stitch itself back up before you’ve got time to writhe dramatically on the ground. Stubbed your little toe on a rusty spiral staircase? Sorry dude, you’re on your own.

Stiles knows all of this because he’s the only one conscientious enough to do his fucking research.

Most of the time that knowledge is a warm reassurance that the majority of the people he loves are highly unlikely to die unless they are literally chopped in half.

But some of the time that information is just really fucking frustrating.

Like right now for example. Because Derek didn’t die in yesterday’s showdown with a rogue vampire coven, no, but he did manage to pull his back out twisting one of their heads off.

And because Derek refuses to be a normal person, he’s not at home resting like he should be. Instead, he’s stiltedly pacing Stiles’ bedroom, grimacing with every step and grunting at each turn and annoying the fucking peach pits out of Stiles.

Stiles throws himself back in his desk chair and pushes away from his laptop. ‘Why are you doing this to yourself? Why are you doing this to _me_?’ he groans, palms pressed into his eye sockets.

‘We need to know who those vampires were and if there’s any more where they came from,’ Derek replies, glaring at the air about two feet above Stiles’ head because he can’t move his fucking neck.

Stiles is sorely tempted to just walk out of his own house, because this might well be the one time in his life that he’s got a hope of outrunning Derek. But then he looks at Derek, who’s holding himself so stiffly, muscles overcompensating so that he’s even more tense than usual, jaw clenching with every move he makes, and he’s just so pathetic looking that Stiles can’t turn him away.

‘I know, dude, I’m working on it. I’ve got all my contacts asking around their circles, trying to subtly pry without getting their ears hexed off.’ Stiles sighs and stretches his arms above his head. Behind him, Skype pings in rapid succession.

‘Who are you talking to now?’ Derek asks, as Stiles spins back around and pulls himself towards his laptop.

‘Hilda,’ Stiles says. He laughs out loud when he sees the image she’s sent through.

‘You were talking to Hilda two hours ago, I thought she didn’t know anything,’ Derek grits, voice tight.

‘Yeah, she doesn’t know anything, but she’s got a black cat that’s afraid of it’s own shadow and the photos are _hilarious_.’

A low growl sounds from right next to his ear and Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin, unaware that Derek could move that fast without whimpering. He only just has time to snatch his fingers out of the way before Derek slams his laptop lid closed.

‘What the hell, dude!’

‘This is serious, Stiles,’ Derek snarls. ‘We don’t have time for you to waste flirting with some witch in Massachusetts.’

‘Dude!’ Stiles slides his precious computer away from where Derek is now growing claws. ‘It’s past midnight and I have school tomorrow, I don’t have time for any of this.’ Derek huffs and levers himself upright, still scowling. ‘And I wasn’t _flirting_ with her, she’s 600 years old!’

Derek’s scowl turns guilty and he shuffles back a few steps. ‘Sorry. I’m just– Sorry.’

‘You’re just added levels of grump because your back’s hurting and you’re too stubborn to admit it?’ Stiles prompts, eyebrows raised.

Derek doesn’t say anything for a moment, staring intently at the floor, but then he nods, ever so minutely.

All at once, Stiles is overwhelmed with sympathy and exasperation and fondness for this silly asshole.

An idea is starting to form in his mind, one of _those_ ideas, the type that either turn out brilliantly or almost get someone gutted. And in this case, the party losing their intestines would be Stiles.

‘Do you– Well. I mean… I could give you a massage?’ Stiles offers tentatively.

Derek snaps his head up and his face spasms in pain.

‘Just, I don’t know, it might help your back. I’ve got magic fingers,’ Stiles says, wiggling said fingers in the air.

Derek makes a choking sound in the back of his throat and his eyebrows do something Stiles has never seen before.

‘Or not,’ Stiles shrugs, cheeks heating up. ‘You don’t have to if you don’t want–’

‘No,’ Derek says quickly, and Stiles kind of wishes the vampires would come back and detract from his humiliation. ‘I mean yes, I mean– that could be… helpful?’

‘You’re asking me?’ Stiles says, quirking one brow, cheeks still burning.

‘No. Yes. You should give me a massage. That would be… good.’

Derek looks the most awkward Stiles has ever seen him, fingers twitching like he’s not sure what to do with his hands, and Stiles quickly turns a snort into a cough.

‘Okay,’ Stiles says, standing up and wiping his sweaty palms against his jeans because okay, this is _happening_. ‘Why don’t you, um, lie on the bed? Yeah. Lie on the bed and I’ll be back in a sec.’

He scurries out of his bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom, rattling around in the cupboard under the sink until he finds what he’s looking for in the bottom left, slightly damp corner.

He returns to find Derek standing awkwardly next to his bed, eyeing it like he thinks the pillows might bite.

‘The sheets are clean, dude, I promise. Just get on there.’

‘I, um,’ Derek pauses to clear his throat. ‘I can’t get my shirt off.’

Oh. Right.

‘I see.’ Stiles needs to stop for a moment to gather his wits. ‘Okay, yeah, okay, um how about you sit down and hold your arms up and I’ll get your shirt.’

Derek does as directed and Stiles steps forward, slow, until he’s standing between Derek’s spread knees with Derek looking up at him from the bed, arms up, waiting for Stiles to _undress_ him. This is so close and yet so far away from Stiles’ fantasies that he’s not quite sure how to breathe.

He grabs the hem of Derek’s henley to distract himself and tugs it gently over his head.

‘Lie on your tummy?’ he mutters, busying himself with tossing Derek’s shirt into the corner, watching it all the way until it hits the carpet so that he doesn’t end up staring at Derek’s naked chest and drooling all over himself.

Only once Derek is settled on his front does Stiles find the courage to look back at him.

He still isn’t prepared for the wide expanse of Derek’s back, all firm muscle and soft skin, the ink of his tattoo black as night against a warm bronze tan. And fuck, when does Derek even find the time to lay out in the sun? Which he most certainly does because _holy god_ Stiles can see _tan lines_ where Derek’s jeans are riding low on his hips. And his _ass_. Derek’s ass is round and perky and would make the most perfect little perch for Stiles to sit on.

‘You okay?’ Derek asks a pillow and Stiles giggles hysterically because he is _the furthest thing_ from okay. Okay is floating on a wooden door and Stiles? Stiles is sinking into the Atlantic.

‘Fine,’ he croaks, and fumbles trying to uncap the small bottle in his hand.

Derek sneezes and then stuffs his face into Stiles’ pillow. ‘What is that _smell_?’

‘Rosewood, jasmine, and sweet almond. It’s massage oil.’

‘Why do you have _massage oil_?’ Derek sounds utterly scandalised, like owning massage oil is something salacious.

And, well, in Stiles’ case that assumption is entirely accurate.

‘Because I was thirteen and too embarrassed to buy lube, okay! And according to the label this particular blend is supposed to promote, uh, _sensation_.’

Derek makes a desperate noise and re-buries his head in the pillow.

Stiles refuses to let himself be embarrassed. It’s not like Derek wasn’t already aware he jerked it on the regular. God knows Stiles talks about it often enough.

He pours a little of the oil into his cupped palm and then climbs up on the bed, kneeling next to Derek’s hip. He spares one last forlorn thought for the straddlability of Derek’s perfect bum and then concentrates on spreading the oil between his hands.

The first touch of his fingers against Derek’s back sends a jolt through his body. Derek’s skin is hot and it’s like stumbling too close to an open fire, the warmth skimming up Stiles arms and curling low in his belly.

He presses his hands flat over Derek’s shoulder blades and Derek hums, sinking further into the mattress.

Stiles starts off slow, just broad, sweeping strokes up and down the length of Derek’s back, from the top of his ass right up and over his shoulders to his collarbones. When everything is warm, a slick, smooth slide beneath Stiles’ fingers, he narrows his focus to particular muscle groups.

He sets his fingers against Derek’s spine, right at the top of his neck, and pushes out, gently pulling the muscles away from the bone. He works his way languidly down one side and then starts again on the other side, slowly coaxing the muscles into releasing their tension.

Somewhere between Derek’s shoulders and the small of his back Stiles slips into a kind of trance, the slow, repetitive movements calming the usual whirring of his brain. It’s only when he’s digging his knuckles into the skin right above Derek’s waistband and pushing out, rolling them around Derek’s sides to the tops of his hips, that Stiles registers something other than his own hands and the slippery hot glide.

Derek is moving. More specifically, Derek’s _hips_ are moving, in continuous smooth undulations right down into the mattress.

Stiles is knocked back into reality so hard that his hands spasm, fingers grabbing Derek’s hipbones and digging in.

And Derek _moans_ , his own fingers clenching in the pillow beneath his head.

Stiles snatches his hands back and scoots away from Derek’s body, so sure that he’s about to be decapitated just like Derek decapitated that vampire. And seriously, _fuck vampires_ , they’re the whole reason Stiles is finding himself in this situation in the first place.

Derek turns his head to the side, lips parted and panting. ‘ _Stiles_.’

Stiles opens his mouth to apologise and beg for mercy, but all that comes out is a single, shuddering breath.

‘Fuck, Stiles, your _hands_ ,’ Derek gasps, and his hips are still moving against the bed. ‘Your _fucking_ hands. Always tapping and flapping and grabbing at something. And then they were on _me_ , were grabbing at _me_ , and I–’

He stops, bites his lip and squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head like the words were completely involuntary, tortured out of him.

Stiles is panting now too, sucking great gulps of jasmine scented air into his lungs and fuck, is this oil hallucinogenic? Because right now that’s looking like the only logical reason for Derek being so turned on that he can’t seem to control his own body. That is exactly the kind of hallucination Stiles’ brain would conjure up.

‘You– You like my hands on you?’ Stiles says, voice shaking. ‘Derek? You like it when I’ve got my hands all over you?’

Derek nods frantically and _whines_ , then pushes his face back into Stiles’ pillow.

‘You can have them. Derek, you can have anything you want. You just have to ask for it,’ Stiles breathes, fingers trembling.

Derek pushes the pillow away, presses his cheek to the sheets beneath him, and whispers, ‘Please.’

Stiles is on him in a single heartbeat, fingers spread wide, smoothing over everything in reach. He reaches around to the front of Derek’s hips again and strokes upwards, feeling his way over Derek’s abs, taut and flexing beneath his fingertips. He glides his hands up higher, over soft skin and coarse hair, and finds Derek’s nipples, twists them between his thumbs and forefingers.

Derek jerks underneath him, hips canting off the bed, and Stiles gives in and finally swings his leg over, straddles Derek’s ass.

‘ _Yeah_ ,’ Derek sighs, and starts rolling back against him.

‘Fuck, Derek,’ Stiles groans, fingers settling against Derek’s ribs and holding on.

‘Stiles,’ Derek says desperately. ‘Stiles, _come on_ , move.’

Stiles pulls his hands out from beneath Derek, draws them back around to his shoulder blades and pushes them up, slides them all the way up to Derek’s wrists and then laces their fingers together, curling them into fists.

When he’s got Derek pinned down, arms stretched out on the bed above him, slippery skin and hot muscle all laid out before him, he pushes his hips forward and leans down to Derek’s ear.

‘You want it like this?’

‘ _Yes_ ,’ Derek hisses, and Stiles starts thrusting in earnest, grinding down against Derek’s ass.

They keep going like that, Derek facedown and writhing on the mattress, Stiles thrusting against him until the zipper pressing against his erection turns just a shade too painful.

At some point he gets his lips on Derek’s neck, sucking bruises that will fade within a day, and when the pinching of his jeans becomes too much Stiles sets his teeth against Derek’s skin and bites down _hard_.

And that’s enough, apparently, because Derek goes shaky-still and stops breathing underneath him. He shudders through his orgasm, releases one tiny, broken sounding moan at the end.

Stiles’ own orgasm rolls over him like a wave and his toes curl up inside the sneakers he never took off. He can’t even be disgusted at himself for coming in his pants because he feels kind of numb from the hips down. Plus, Derek still has his jeans on too.

They lie quietly for a while, Derek collapsed on the bed with Stiles flopped on top of him, and Stiles can feel Derek’s racing heart against his own chest.

‘Um,’ Derek says eventually.

Stiles is far too tired to deal with Derek’s inevitable freak out, so he turns his head and tucks his face into the sweaty space between Derek’s neck and shoulder.

‘How’s your back now?’

**Author's Note:**

> *runs away and hides*


End file.
